


Windbreaker

by Fudgyokra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cocaine, Drug Use, Gen, Introspection, One-Sided Attraction, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9278510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: When the needle went in, his body slowed down.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for S4 ahead! Edited as of 1/12/17.

When the needle went in, his body slowed down. It didn’t stop the thoughts—never stopped the thoughts, only gave him enough sense not to speak all of them aloud. When it came to clients this was not a particularly good thing; when it came to John it was the best thing. It kept his heart from slipping off his sleeve.

Truth be told Sherlock knew cocaine did more bad than good. He wasn’t an idiot, of course. But somewhere in the back of his head he thought about Mary Morstan—no, he corrected himself mentally: Mary __Watson__ —and the words she’d spoken to him on that damned DVD.

__Save John Watson._ _

__Save him, Sherlock._ _

Sherlock’s skull ached. In his mind palace he pictured John by his side, smiling and holding Rosie in his arms like nothing had ever changed. He imagined what he’d do if John never spoke to him again. It wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t pretty __now__ , as he and the ruffian in his flat shot up and lolled about the place. In his mind he texted John Watson at night while in his reality John would rather text a stranger. A tryst with anyone but the people he knew. If he ever needed someone to distract him from an unhappy marriage, it wasn’t going to be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock knew this, but when he tried to voice the thought it came out strangely.

“Watson didn’t leave his wife for his friend,” he said to no one in particular.

The addict beside him gave him a look composed of raised eyebrows and a curled lip. “That’s good isn’t it?”

“That’s fantastic,” Sherlock replied, looking vaguely confused by the question. “Why wouldn’t it be? Good men don’t cheat on their wives.”

“Better men don’t dream about other men leaving their wives.”

At that, Sherlock remained silent. He stared at the wall until it hurt to breathe, and that was when he reached for the needle again.

“Are you crazy?” a disembodied voice asked him. “Do you want to die?”

 _ _No. Yes?__  He didn’t really have an answer to that. Someone probably wanted him to die. Someone hadn’t wanted Mary to die. Someone was the reason he was sitting here doing this to himself with no regard for his own personal health.

Sherlock Holmes did not blame Someone. He could never (would never) blame John for the way Sherlock made himself feel. He would probably remain alive out of spite and spend the rest of his life thinking about what he’d do if John had loved him more than Mary, but he’d rather die than admit such a fact. Luckily, the drugs severed the connection between his brain and his mouth, making it very difficult to even find the words to voice such a thought. It was only a phantom sensation on his tongue when he spoke about it instead of a coherent thought.

His much sought-after high acted like a jacket for his brain in the sense that it trapped the warmth where it belonged: in his body and never __ever__  anywhere else. A warmth of that strength might burn the one person in this world that he needed, and so Sherlock did everything in his power to freeze himself over.

He would save John Watson even if it meant killing himself.


End file.
